


There, and Back Again

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [31]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Aziraphale loves Crowley, Character Study, Daydreaming, Elves, Hobbits, Lord of the Rings, Love Confession, M/M, Sindarin, aziraphale also loves Tolkien, secret communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: Aziraphale had always thought that, if he could be anything other than an angel or a human, he would be a Hobbit.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 13
Kudos: 83





	There, and Back Again

Aziraphale had always thought that, if he could be anything other than an angel or a human, he would be a Hobbit. Sure, he knew Hobbits were entirely fictional, but you couldn’t deny they had it good. From his first read of the first edition of ‘The Hobbit’ he had ever owned, Aziraphale found himself entirely taken by Professor Tolkien’s descriptions of the Shire and the life led by little people. And as he found himself swept away into the lushness of the world Tolkien had created, the adventure and the thrill and the heartache, it was always the Hobbits that remained the most dear to him. They ate several meals a day and ate them well, enjoyed a good drink in the evenings, loved to dance and sing— and if you gave Aziraphale the chance, and some patient instruction, he could dance all night— and enjoyed the peace and quiet of a life with no adventures. Aziraphale often wished for that, himself. But he was an angel and he had duties, some of which still involved working very hard in damp places, and it was hardly like his golden pinky-ring could turn him invisible when he wanted it to, so it had always been rather hard to avoid the occasional jaunt. “Congratulations Aziraphale, we’re sending you to so-and-so. Only for a few weeks.” And the whole time Aziraphale was on assignment, he would think about his bookshop, warm and cozy and empty, and grumble. “Why, oh why, did I leave my Hobbit-hole?”

But that was what made the books so important, personally, to Aziraphale. For once he had some kind of reassurance that there was value in wanting a simple life; that a quaint existence surrounded by comfort and everything you needed, grown by your hand, was to be just as cherished and aspired to as a life of glory, excitement and renown. Aziraphale would certainly fit in well in the Shire, if he ever found himself magically transported there. He was practically a Hobbit already— old-fashioned clothes, round figure, bright fluffy hair. Not to mention his appetite.

And Crowley? Where would he belong in the realm of Arda? Of course, Aziraphale thought adoringly, he would definitely be an Elf. Crowley was tall and slender, and he looked beautiful when his hair was long and loose, although if Aziraphale dared to imagine Crowley as graceful he would be deluding himself. Crowley was a careless creature, his saunter a haphazard thing that treated legs as an afterthought. But he fit everything else— an affinity and connection to living things blooming in the earth, and stars twinkling in the night sky. There were rough edges to Crowley that did not line up with the picture-perfect creatures Tolkien had envisioned, but Aziraphale could never see him as anything other than the most beautiful thing in existence.

One of the benefits to immortality was that you could take your time to learn as many things as you could. Aziraphale spent several years teaching himself to read Tolkien Elvish and then, once he had arrived at some fluency, taught Crowley, too. He knew the demon was clever, and he knew the demon was curious; curious enough to apply himself to learning an entirely different, entirely made-up language. They wrote notes and letters containing particularly sensitive information in Sindarin, secure in the knowledge that neither angels nor demons could read them. It became one of the codes they used throughout the years of the Arrangement.

Crowley did not read the books. He hadn’t the patience. But he did watch the movies, over and over and over. He called Aziraphale up after the premiere of The Fellowship of the Ring. “I get why you like this stuff so much, Angel. It’s bloody fantastic.” And then, “You remind me of Hobbits.”

In the last few moments before Satan arrived, as the ground shook and Crowley writhed in pain, Aziraphale found himself thinking, again, of Hobbits. He and Crowley had been like Sam and Frodo, on a perilous and risky journey to save the world. And Crowley had always been Aziraphale’s Sam, he knew that now; the one carrying him when he couldn’t go on, the one holding on to a shred of hope when Aziraphale was all but ready to doubt. He knew it more than ever when it was over, and they sat on the bench at the bus stop, and Crowley wondered aloud if She had planned it all like this from the beginning, and the fear of what would await them the next day crept in, little by little. Aziraphale had held Crowley’s hand on the bus and leaned his head on his shoulder and closed his eyes, and was grateful that Crowley was with him: here, at the end of all things.

But it wasn’t the end, thanks to Adam; it was instead a wonderful new beginning, one that allowed Aziraphale to be with Crowley with more frequency, and in closer proximity, than ever before. He found himself awash with gratitude knowing that not only could he have the quiet, peaceful life he’d always wanted, but that he could share it with Crowley too. Crowley was here right now, actually, stretched out on one side of the couch while Aziraphale sat comfortably on the other, and probably most miraculous of all was that he was reading. Yes, reading. The Hobbit, no less. Aziraphale himself was settled down with a copy of The Silmarillion. Crowley’s sock-toes had tucked themselves under Aziraphale’s plump thigh. He’d pushed his sunglasses up over his forehead, and the sun streamed through the bookshop windows, catching in the vibrant yellow of his eyes. They lounged in companionable silence, then Aziraphale looked over the top of his book and said, casually, “ _Gi melin._ ”

Crowley looked up, eyebrow cocked, and said irritably, “What does that mean?”

Before, Aziraphale might have folded and said “Nothing, my dear,” and convinced himself that it had been a long time since they communicated in Elvish, Crowley must have forgotten some phrases. But like certain Hobbits after a long journey, Aziraphale had changed. He just gave Crowley a bastardous smirk and went back to his book. “You know what that means.”

And maybe Crowley had changed too. Because although he blinked in puzzlement and looked back down at the page he was reading, he replied, “Love you, too.”

Yes, there would be peace for them now. At least, Aziraphale hoped so. Though he knew that if the occasion called for another adventure, he and Crowley would be more than capable of taking it on, so long as they had each other. Eternity just meant all the more time for delightful conversations, for soft compliments and gentle squabbling and lively debates. For Crowley to grow out his hair, maybe, and for Aziraphale to brush it until it was as fine and silky as an Elf’s. For them to learn how to dance, and to finish all of Tolkien’s books, and perhaps even watch the movies, and to drink, and feed each other sushi and crepes, and to enjoy their endless existence and each other in the simplest ways that mattered the most.

Aziraphale would cherish each moment. All that was gold did not glitter. And not all those who wandered were lost.


End file.
